


Warmth Personified

by CatKing_Catkin



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Cecil Feels Pain, Cecil is Mostly Human, Dark Magic, Developing Relationship, Eldritch Abominations, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Male Slash, Nightmares, POV Character of Color, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Slashy, Speculation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:23:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatKing_Catkin/pseuds/CatKing_Catkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just after Episode 3 ("Station Management"). Written for H/C bingo on Dreamwidth, prompt "telepathic trauma". </p><p>Cecil doesn't quite make it to the door in time to escape Station Management. For reasons of their own, they let him live, but the radio host is still left wounded, shaken, and hurt, trapped in a nightmare of torture as punishment for asking for letters.</p><p>Carlos, who realized weeks ago that he has the survival instinct of a lemming, comes running to his rescue, and lends Cecil a shoulder to lean on and a floor to sleep on for the night. A lot goes unsaid after Cecil wakes up, because neither one of them is good at finding the right words when face-to-face. But Carlos finds himself with a lot to think about, and Cecil winds up thanking Carlos the only way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth Personified

**Author's Note:**

> Bah! I wanted to get more into introspection, philosophical discussions, and just general *talking*. But Cecil clammed up without the microphone in front of him, and Carlos would rather make up poetic metaphors. 
> 
> Maybe next time. Until then, I hope this satisfies.

Carlos had sent a letter. It had seemed the least he could do, hearing the…yes, hearing the _fear_ in Cecil’s voice, as he all but begged Night Vale to come together, to keep him on the air, to keep the mysterious “Station Management” in their offices that maybe didn’t obey the laws of physics. It had just been a hastily scribbled thing that he’d gone out to drop into the mailbox on the corner, he hadn’t even thought it would make it there before tomorrow, or maybe the day after if Wednesday wound up canceled again, and yet he’d come back just as the weather was ending for _that_.

If he’d had a halfway decent survival instinct, he would have left Nightvale weeks ago. Carlos had long ago resolved to just do the best he could to follow the rules and figure things out. There was no rule against running towards danger, was there? Probably just the opposite.

So Carlos hurried off towards the radio station. Night Vale was not a large town, and even if he’d owned a car, he wouldn’t have driven it after hearing the policy on stoplights. Panic made him lose track of time, and Carlos usually had a very good sense of time, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before the squat little radio station came into view up the block.

It seemed…normal enough, in so far as anywhere in Night Vale could be normal. Quiet enough, no sign that malevolent _things_ were tromping around inside, hungry for blood, already having killed someone. Carlos was quickly becoming used to the idea of death in this quiet little desert town, and wasn’t sure he liked what that said about him, but the thought of _Cecil_ …

The door slammed open. Carlos got a view of a whirling nightmare of… _something_ , heard a sound like a million nails dragged across the empty chalkboard of his brain, before he was thankfully distracted by Cecil. He was distracted by Cecil because something threw him bodily out the door, right into Carlos, sending them both sprawling onto the baking hot sidewalk. The door then mercifully _slammed_ shut, taking sight and sound from within the station with it.

Carlos tried to push himself upright, and Cecil slid off of him and to the pavement with the sort of sickly, sliding _thud_ one usually associated with a sack of potatoes. Carlos looked down desperately to find that the radio host was apparently quite unconscious.

“Cecil?!” he cried, kneeling down and shaking him – gently, at first, and then harder when there was no reply. “Cecil, hey!”

Numbly, trying to keep back the panic that he already knew did no good here, Carlos went through the usual checks – pulse, heartbeat, temperature, obvious wounds. The results weren’t good. His pulse was thready, his heartbeat racing, his skin clammy. The fact that there were no _obvious_ wounds was a small mercy.

Even as he pulled away to try and consider his next move, Cecil twitched feebly on the pavement. He mumbled something that Carlos couldn’t quite catch, like anyone would when talking in their sleep. Carlos tried to wake him again, shouting his name, wondering if he should slap him, but nothing worked. He looked around wildly at the few people on the streets around them at this time of night, but no one was paying them any attention, except to cast the occasional pitying sidelong glance, or make sympathetic noises he barely caught over the sounds of cars on the road.

And then Carlos’ attention was dragged back forcibly to Cecil as the man let out a tight, strangled _scream_.

Every muscle in Cecil had gone as tense as a spring, his expression twisted up into something tortured, and he twisted and squirmed and _writhed_ as though harried by scorpions. The sound of his screams, the sight of him in so much agony, this strange, bright man that soothed Night Vale to sleep every night, was one of the most horrifying things Carlos had ever seen, and the last few weeks had set a very high bar for that. For a moment, he found himself utterly paralyzed with shock, when he should have been helping, when he seemed like he was the only one who _would_ …

It wasn’t easy. Even at night, Night Vale was baking, broiling hot, so that Carlos sometimes found himself seized with the urge to kowtow to his air conditioner that was probably normal. And Cecil did not make himself easy to drag – even held tight, with Carlos’ arm around his waist and his arm over Carlos’ shoulder, Cecil twitched and trembled and convulsed all the while, like someone in the throes of a seizure that never showed signs of easing…

And then Carlos eventually realized that Cecil wasn’t having a seizure. He was having a nightmare. Held close like this, Cecil was close enough for Carlos to hear that his whimpered, feverish murmuring really did take the shape of words. They just weren’t words Carlos particularly wanted to hear from anyone.

_“Please, stop…it hurts…forgive me…don’t, please, no more…”_

On and on and on, a ceaseless prayer against whatever pain was ravaging him that no one heard except Carlos. And Cecil was in pain. No one sounded like that who wasn’t suffering, and the fact that it was bad enough to reduce the normally eloquent Cecil to a babbling wreck was somehow the scariest thing of all.

Carlos would have done anything, there and then, to spare him that suffering. But he was utterly lost as to what was happening, it was taking all his strength just to keep dragging them forward. All he could do was pray with Cecil, hoping madly that his voice could somehow reach him where he was but mostly needing to just do _something_.

_“Ssh, Cecil, it’s all right…I’m here…I’m going to help you…don’t be afraid…”_

He’d never felt so tired or so _helpless_ by the time he was shouldering open the door to the empty lab. At this time of night, everyone else had gone home, so Carlos thought nothing of laying Cecil down on the tiled floor. At least he knew it was clean.

He lingered a moment, fussing uselessly, brushing some hair back from Cecil’s clammy forehead, stroking a hand over his cheek, sure that Cecil probably couldn’t even feel his touch but wanting to give him something anyway, wanting to help and make it stop and knowing that he couldn’t.

Then he tore himself away as long as it took to go to the safety cabinet and retrieve the fire blanket. It was the softest thing there was in the lab, and at least he knew it was warm.   

Carlos tucked the fire blanket around Cecil, and then found himself tearing off his coat, bundling it up, and tucking it under Cecil’s head. He was still thrashing, he needed some kind of cushioning or he’d bash his head on the tiles. Carlos reflected bitterly that this was probably the most useful thing he’d done yet, besides getting Cecil inside at all, and they’d passed half a dozen perfectly good buildings on the way here anyway.

And yet, when he made to stand and leave, sure that he must have done all he could, sure that he can’t stand another minute of helplessly watching this man in torment, one word reached him, gasped out like a drowning man’s last breath of air. “Carlos…”

And Carlos felt his heart break. He almost choked on the shame of even thinking of leaving Cecil here, like this. He all but fell to his knees beside Cecil, reaching out to hold one of the dreaming man’s hands tightly in both of his. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m so sorry Cecil, I’m here now…”

In a gesture that was maybe reflex, maybe not, Cecil’s fingers curled around his and held tight.

He thought, hoped, that this might be a sign that Cecil was waking up, coming out of this strange, frightening _fit_. But time passed, on and on, hours that he wouldn’t even notice until he looked at the clock later. Carlos was only spared from going insane by the occasional sign that Cecil knew he was there, even if he couldn’t wake up. It was still enough to let him know that he was doing _something_ to ease the radio host’s pain, just by being here, holding his hand, whispering soothing nothings. When he stroked a hand softly over Cecil’s cheek, the other man pressed himself into Carlos’ touch like it was a lifeline.

It was well past midnight when some of the whipcord tension started to fade from Cecil’s body, and his restless murmurings slowly started to become more incoherent before trailing away to silence and deep breathing. Carlos had never been happier to see someone sleeping – he laughed in sheer, joyous relief with the knowledge that he’d survived Night Vale’s newest terror, and maybe helped Cecil survive it, too.

Carlos felt safe to risk leaving him, then – just for a while to stretch his legs, and get himself something to drink. He knew that Cecil might wake up while he was gone, but Carlos knew that people didn’t handle nightmares like they did in the movies. They didn’t sit bolt upright with a gasp, usually they just opened their eyes and lay there feeling weird and disquieted for a while.

Not in Night Vale, it seemed. Carlos, downing a second cup of water in the break room, heard Cecil wake up, heard the blanket being violently kicked aside and struggled out of, and in the otherwise silent lab the sound of him gasping for air and whimpering like a kicked dog was horribly audible.

This time, Carlos retained enough presence of mind to remember to fill up one of the cheap plastic cups with water from the tap before he went back to the radio host’s side.

Cecil seemed physically all right, but he looked shaken, and somehow _lost_. Carlos remembered then that Cecil had never been in his lab. Suddenly waking up here, when his last proper memory was of making a break for the door back in the radio station, was probably quite disorienting. The radio host was looking around, wide-eyed and _nervous_ , breathing heavily, clenching and unclenching his hands reflexively as they shook like the rest of him.

He _flinched_ when Carlos kneeled down beside him, rested a steadying hand on his back. It was such a startling reaction that Carlos nearly dropped the cup he’d brought. Cecil stared at him, and for a moment, there was absolutely no sign of recognition in his eyes. The sight made Carlos’ breath catch in his throat.

But then it passed, and Cecil saw him, and he _smiled_. Carlos smiled back, and then carefully pressed the cup of water into Cecil’s shaking hands, waiting until the other man seemed to remember how to hold it before he took his hands away. Then, as Cecil drank gratefully, Carlos found himself untangling the blanket from around the other’s legs. After a moment’s hesitation, he threw it around Cecil’s shoulders instead, tucking it in a bit against him.

The moment passed in perfect silence, except for the rustling of the fire blanket and the sounds of Cecil gulping down water. It was strange, sitting with the normally chatty Cecil like this, close and strangely intimate and _silent_. Probably just another sign of how shaken he was, how vulnerable he’d just been.

All the same, when Carlos could finally bring himself to speak, his voice sounded horrifically intrusive in the scene. “Here,” he said, taking the cup back from Cecil and making to stand. “I’ll get you some more.”

He didn’t even make it to his feet before Cecil grabbed him by the wrist, moving fast enough and holding tight enough that Carlos gasped in surprise and almost fell back into a sitting position.

But as it turned out, it was only Cecil’s silent indication that, thirsty as he was, he wanted Carlos to stay even more. He drove the point home by wrapping his arms around Carlos and pulling him close, resting his head on the scientist’s chest as though listening to his heartbeat.

It was…intensely distracting, especially in light of everything he’d heard on the radio. Whether or not Cecil meant all those things he said, he still said them, still described absolutely everything about Carlos from his hair to his toes in adoring detail. Carlos sometimes wondered if Cecil was actually attracted to him, but had been going on under the assumption that it was just Night Vale’s way of making newcomers feel welcome.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in Cecil. It was that he hadn’t really had time to think about what that might _mean_. But Carlos didn’t pull away – he wrapped an arm around Cecil and held him, and ran a hand tenderly through Cecil’s hair. For all that Cecil praised Carlos’ hair as being everything good in the world, Cecil’s wasn’t so bad either. This, all of this, was just to reassure him, and it was easier if he thought of it that way.

“What happened?” he finally asked, and this time his voice didn’t sound so invasive in the silence and closeness.

Cecil’s eyes were closed, and he sounded strangely, perfectly content when he finally spoke. “I didn’t quite make it to the door in time. Station Management wanted to have a word with me.”

“ _That_ was them having a word with you?”

“Oh, yes. They can’t really express themselves properly on the physical plane. Or so I’ve heard,” he added quickly, in that way Carlos was fast becoming used to. That way that indicated the speaker knew very well they were being watched. “So they pulled me into the dream world for a little while.”

“They sounded like they were torturing you!” Carlos’ voice, high and tight with shock and horror, sounded silly and hysterical in the face of Cecil’s utter calm. Cecil noticed it, enough to push away just a bit, enough to look up at Carlos and smile brightly.

“Of course they were,” he said. “I expected nothing less, if I made them upset enough to actually come out. Why, Carlos…did I _worry_ you?”

He seemed genuinely surprised at the idea. Carlos, in turn, nearly choked on the words. “What do you think?! Of course you did! You sounded terrified, one of your interns was already dead or, or permanently absorbed, they threw you out the door and then you started screaming! No one else was doing anything!”

“Of course they weren’t.” Cecil laughed lightly. “You don’t think it’s the first time I’ve been brought up for disciplinary action, do you? It might have been the worst, that is true, but it won’t be the last, either. And no one wants to get Station Management’s attention.”

He looked around warily, then leaned in close to Carlos and whispered, like a child sharing a secret on the playground, “I’m something of a loose cannon, you know. It makes me a wonderful reporter, but a bit of an uncooperative citizen.” He pulled back enough to add, loudly and deliberately. “Even though I respect all the laws of Night Vale and the wisdom of the City Council.”

He winked at Carlos, as though it were a joke, a game, as though being trapped in his dreams and tortured for the crime of asking to stay on the air was normal and _expected_. As though he’d deserved to be in pain and wake up terrified.

Cecil, a loose cannon? The man who cheerfully advised all citizens to carry umbrellas in case of dead animals, recommended Radon Canyon as a pleasant vacation spot, and told them to eat at Big Rico’s once a week on penalty of criminal action?

The man who frequently went off on tangents about the beautiful, perfect _outsider_ , who tried to warn parents where their children were likely to get spirited away and who acknowledged the existence of angels?

…Carlos suddenly understood just what a fine edge Cecil walked, even compared to most of Night Vale. And he did it with a smile and without missing a beat. Most days. But even now, he looked determined to get right back on his feet and go in to work tomorrow. Not even determined. Like any other alternative hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“…are you okay?” Carlos heard himself ask. It seemed like the most useless thing he could have possibly asked, but it was also the only thing he could think of. And Cecil, damn him, bless him, looked surprised that Carlos was even asking.

“I’m always okay,” he said, and his voice had taken on that smooth, soothing quality it had when he was safely ensconced behind his microphone. The voice that had lulled Carlos to sleep more nights than one, by now, and saved his life just as often. Carlos was faintly surprised that Cecil hadn’t called him “listener”.

“But,” Cecil continued, getting back to his feet. He was a little unsteady, and so Carlos stood with him just to make sure he wasn’t about to fall. “As much as I would love to stay and bask, I am afraid it’s past time for me to depart. I’ve denied you your beauty rest long enough, dear Carlos.”

“No, you haven’t,” Carlos protested, feeling his cheeks growing warm. He thought he’d gotten used to Cecil talking about him like that, especially the way he said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. But it was…different, hearing it in person, and he almost thought Cecil looked a little embarrassed this time saying it. “Really, Cecil, it’s okay. I’m glad I could help. If I did help.”

“You did. Really. You’ve been very…kind, Carlos.” He said the word like it tasted odd, but not unpleasant. But he smiled that strange, bright smile at Carlos, the same one he’d worn when Carlos had tried to warn him to evacuate the building, and Cecil had just turned back to his microphone. _But then who would be here to talk sweetly to all of you out there?_

Cecil reminded him, there and then, of nothing so much as a star. Something beautiful and bright and brilliant, something that was so magical it should never have existed, that would one day burn up into nothing in the heat of its own radiance.

Carlos knew that he should stop him walking out the door, stop him going back to work. But he just walked Cecil to the door, instead. They waved at each other, they said good night, and then Carlos lingered in the doorway, watching Cecil walk away until he turned the corner.

He thought of the letter he’d written, how it had been perfectly professional, and how it almost hadn’t been. He’d written about how Cecil was a valuable member of the community doing his duty as a reporter and that Carlos found his broadcasts quite enjoyable and informative.  He’d wanted to write about how Cecil’s broadcasts had saved his life. How he’d started to hear Cecil’s voice in his head, whenever he stopped himself doing something that would get him arrested or re-educated or dead, like the man had become an angel on his shoulder with a voice like warmth personified.

He hadn’t written that. He hadn’t wanted to seem out of line. Maybe he should have, if Cecil had been doomed anyway. Maybe at least the words would have been out of his head, and Cecil could have known them. Carlos had always been better expressing himself in writing than words in any case.

But the letter was gone, now, probably devoured by Station Management in their fury, and he would never write another one again. Not if it meant losing the angel on his shoulder who talked so sweetly to him. So resolved, and so depressed, Carlos closed up the lab and went to bed.

It was a lot harder to fall asleep than it had been for a while.

*  *  *

Cecil had the sort of voice that could make the horrific seem so utterly mundane, even mildly pleasant. It had been a major factor in helping Carlos keep his sanity so far, this knowledge that all of Night Vale’s terrors weren’t so terrifying to someone. His cheery recitations of upcoming sacrifices, updates on mysterious fires, reminders not to look at or think of the dog park, and creepy sponsor announcements were almost background noise by now, a pleasant accompaniment to his work.

He listened rather more intently to the next night’s broadcast, trying to get any sign of how Cecil was doing with only his voice to go on. But even then, he only realized what Cecil was talking about halfway through when he brightly mentioned _“…I am pleased to report that Station Management has enlarged the air holes in the HR Box, as per the new union regulations, so that asphyxiation is only a faint possibility, maybe ten percent, fifteen at the outside, as opposed to a near certainty. So to any young hopefuls out there, we have several new internships open after yesterday’s unpleasantness, and we would love to have you on the team. And now, the weather.”_

As the soothing strains of the weather filtered out through the radio, Carlos realized that he’d stopped breathing. He spent a minute taking several deep breaths, grateful for the opportunity to be able to do so at all. Unbidden, he thought of Cecil, locked in a tight, dark place, struggling to breathe while probably being _grateful_ , damn him, for Station Management’s understanding in not actually trying to kill him.

He wondered wildly if Cecil would even come back after the weather was over. Then the weather was over, and Cecil was back like he’d never been gone, and Carlos felt foolish for worrying. He felt foolish for worrying at all. Why should he, when Cecil never worried about himself, when this entire _town_ didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word fear?

Cecil obviously thought Carlos was so…quaint, and silly, for worrying as much as he did about everything, about this town and all the ways it had to kill someone horribly. Still perfect and beautiful, of course, but stupid, irrational in a way unbecoming a scientist.

Then Cecil surprised him all over again. Maybe Carlos would one day stop being surprised by that, by the way Cecil seemed to reach out through the radio waves to make the world make sense, but he doubted it. His voice soothed all the scientist’s anxieties in that way he had from three blocks away and without missing a beat. The bright little angel on his shoulder proved himself as attentive as ever, regardless of whatever suffering he endured for it.

_“And now, listeners, I leave you with this. If you have ever thought that your life is just one vast, endless, howling nightmare where agony drags white-hot claws through the tatters of your soul and empty eyes stare down at you, uncaring, as you writhe in torment, take heart. It might be! And so you might one day wake, to a blanket tucked around your shoulders just so, a plastic cup of cool, refreshing water pressed into your shaking, grasping hands, and the gentle touch of soft, well-shaped, beautifully long-fingered hands that smell faintly of peaseblossom. Good night, listeners. Pleasant waking.”_

The words felt like a slap in the face and a lover’s kiss, and left him wanting to laugh and cry all at once. Carlos found himself staring at nothing for a long time, trying to untangle the knot that had been made of his feelings. He didn’t succeed, and wondered if he ever would.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to put forth the idea that Cecil was never shaken up by getting caught. It's more that I wanted to portray that he's good at bouncing back, and would have done so eventually. But Carlos made it easier for him, and Cecil's just not used to having anyone around that doesn't die within the week.


End file.
